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FROM THE LIMBO OF 
FORGOTTEN THINGS 

A BOOK OF VERSE 



BY 

MARY STUART TYSON 




BOSTON 

SHERMAN, FRENCH & COMPANY 

1916 



4^ 



copykight, 1916 
Shermax, French ^ Company 

DEC 20 1916 

©CI,A4r,:3172 



TO THE MEMORY OF 

MY PARENTS 



NOTE 

The author's thanks are due to Con- 
temporary Verse for permission to re- 
print " Eastereven " and '' The Quest," 
which appeared in its pages, the latter in 
sliffhtly altered form. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Marriage of a King 1 

On the Stairway at Blois 27 

OTHER POEMS 

Of My Verse Children 45 

Easter Even 46 

The Quest 47 

Somewhere in Flanders 48 

Off the Coast 51 

Return out of Estrangement .... 52 

On an Ancient Stone Circle .... 54 

Forgetfulness 55 

Sufficiency 56 

Scamander 57 

Leaves 59 

Autumn Roses 60 

To Madonna Beatrice D'Este .... 61 

Absence 62 

Rain Song for a Child 63 

Mme. Anna Pavlowa 64 

M 65 

The Name of Petrarch's Lady . ... 66 

To Sir J. Forbes-Robertson 67 

A Song op Autumn 68 

The Grave and the Rose 69 

L'Envoi 70 



THE MARRIAGE OF A KING 



" Philip (Augustus') second wife was Ingeborg 
of Denmark, whom he married in 1193, and di- 
vorced the day after their marriage. He soon 
afterward married Agnes of Meran. Ingeborg ap- 
pealed to the Pope, who took her cause in hand, 
and, on Philip's refusing to abandon Agnes, placed 
the kingdom under an interdict. The services 
ceased in all the churches : the people were without 
prayers. In the end the king was obliged to yield. 
He sent away Agnes of Meran, who died of grief, 
and took Ingeborg back." Victor Duruy, " His- 
tory of France." Translated by Mrs. M. Carey. 

Note. The cause of Philip's repudiation of 
Ingeborg has never been known to history. For 
the purposes of romance I have assumed it to be 
his already formed attachment to Agnes. 

Author. 



PRELUDE 

The passion of a long dead king 
Thrills through the ages down to me ; 
Hundreds of 3'ears ago he loved 
Agnes de Meranie. 

Agnes, we know not if thine eyes 
Were blue or dusk as autumn wood, 
Or what thy face, when vividly 
Throbbed thy Tyrolean blood. 

We only know thy spell was bound 
About thy love ; and we afar 
Behold thee with his ravished eyes, 
Fair as a dawn-lit star. 

We know that when the great, dread curse 
Pressed on his heart his people's pain, 
He put thee from him, nevermore 
To see thy face again. 

We know the curse was lifted up. 
The Church smiled and the land drew breath. 
Agnes, what meant her smile to thee? 
Thy wound was unto death. 



THE MARRIAGE OF A KING 
PART I 

Merania. The courtyard of the castle of the 
Duke Berthold. 

Morning. Soldiers walk to and fro. Knock- 
ing is heard. 

First Soldier 

What summons is without? 

\\^oice, without:^ Open the gate 

To a poor wandering monk. I bring great news. 

[Enter a French monk on a jaded horse^ 

Monk 

He! I have ridden up and down the highways, 
Bidding the people everywhere rejoice. 
But send and fetch me first a stoup of wine, 
My throat is dry with bawling out my tidings. 
[Wine is brought. The ]\Ioxk drinks 
deep\ 

Second Soldier 

Haste and deliver, our impatience waits. 
1 



2 Cbe yardage ot a Mm 

Monk 

Enough amazement will I give to you. 

Know then my sovereign lord, the king of 

France, 
Has of late taken to himself as wife 
None other than the Princess Ingeborg 
Of Denmark's royalty. 

First Soldier 

The king of France 
Wedded to Denmark's princess? Is this true? 

Monk 

True by the Mass ! I saw it with these eyes — 
The king, the queen and all the royal train, 
Processions, music, and high carnival. 
Straightway I hastened forth to be of those 
To spread the word and see the people gape. 
I am not one who loves to stay at home 
Shut in the monastery, where all night 
The monks bray in the church, and through the 

day 
They labor without ceasing, save at meals. 
No, let me take the road with my good horse. 
Mix with my kind for jest and gaiety. 
Such disposition brought me by good chance 
To witness the event I have disclosed ; 
And further wish to travel brings me here. 
As everywhere is welcome strange far news. 



Cf)e ^attiage of a i^ing 3 

First Soldier 

Strange news indeed, for almost we had thought 
Our princess, so well loved and beautiful, 
Might be the queen to sit on France's throne. 

Monk 

What profit would be gotten by my king 
In an alliance with Merania? 
No, he soars higher. Mark the word I sa}'. 
Beneath King Philip Capet's rule our land 
Will rise to be the greatest in the world, 
Stretching her boundaries from sea to sea. 
No city now with Paris may compare ; 
You have not seen her newly paven streets ; 
The vast cathedral rising in her midst 
In honour of Our Lady ; nor the wall 
Now building to surround her with defence. 
I drink to her, our king, and to his bride. 

And let me not forget to give you thanks ; 

For I and my poor jade are wearied out 

With sojourning on your rough mountain ways. 

First Soldier 

Well, no one here may want for food or caring; 
So enter in and rest you from wayfaring. 
[Exeunt'] 



CJ)e (©arriage of a l^ing 



The following evening. The Chamber of the 
Princess Agnes. She is seated upright on a 
chair. Her ladies stand apart from her near 
the window, and speak to one another in under- 
tones. 

First Lady 
Since yestermorn she has not spoken word. 

Second Lady 

Nor touched her hitc, nor yet has tasted meat. 

The broidery frame stands idle by the couch ; 

No deed of grace or sign of gentle pity, 

As she is wont to the unfortunate. 

But ever has she sat as one in trance 

From the dark hour that brought the messenger. 

Third Lady 
How did the night pass, you who slept with her ? 

Fourth Lady 

The arras murmured to the wandering gusts. 
The rushes stirred and lifted on the floor 
As though an unseen footfall traversed them. 



C!)e Q^amage of a H^ing 5 

Without the dogs howled, tugging at the leash. 
The armour of the passing sentinels 
Clanked as they walked ; there was no other 
sound. 

Third Lady 
No stifled sob? No lamentable moan.'' 

Fourth Lady 

Notliing. So still she lay I deemed her dead. 
And all the love I bear unto my lady 
Was centred on the wish it might be so. 
But when was ever death so merciful? 
Through the long watches of the night I felt 
Those fixed eyes staring into nothingness. 

First Lady 
Our lady's pride would hold her eyes from tears. 

Fourth Lady 

I think no sense of what the word might mean 
Holds place wuthin her bosom ; only pain 
So deep it overwhelms all other sense. 

Second Lady 

Great wonder if it could be otherwise ; 

Her love once given is forever given. 

O ! Philip, king of France, what reckoning 

Hast thou to meet in the last judgment's call ; 



6 Cbe Carriage of a lining 

Thou and the haughty bride whom thou hast 
taken, 

Ingeborg, princess of the northern land, 

Who owned the day that should have been our 
lady's, 

The night that should have brought her happi- 
ness. 

Fourth Lady 

Now day and night are both the same to her. 

First Lady 

The evening falls apace. The level sun 
Burns only on the highest battlements, 
Where the long shadow creeps up from the 

court 
It has already swallowed in its gloom. . . . 
But what is this ? A clamour is without ; 
The drawbridge falls, and the portcullis lifts ; 
What cortege enters through the castle gate? — 
Mother of God ! What standard waves below ? 
Confirm my sight, and prove I am not mad. 

[She seizes the wrist of her nearest com- 
panionl 

Second Lady 
Christ's mercy ! 'Tis the fleur-de-lis of France. 



Cf)e ^attiage of a lining 7 

Third Lady 

Oh, look to where our princess has arisen 
As one who newly wakens from the dead. 

First Lady 

Again the spirit gleams from out her eyes ; 
The life-blood courses through its unused chan- 
nels. 

Second Lady 

Below the portal swings ; and on the stair, 
Hark to the ringing sound of mailed feet. 

l^The arras part, and Philip Augustus, 
king of France, stands in the doorway. 
He kneels to the princess, howi/ng his 
forehead on her hands. The ladies re- 
tire^ 

Philip 

My queen, my love, behold me body and soul 
Prostrate before thee. I could not endure 
Apart from thee, nor bear the galling chain 
I forged myself so short a time gone by. 

{^Rising to his feet} 
'Tis ended. Ingeborg I have divorced. 
I put her from me the ensuing day 
Of marriage, and forthwith to Compiegne 
Summoned my prelates to annul the bond. 
This have they done. Since then by day and 

night, 



8 Clje Carriage of a Mn^ 

With all haste have I posted furiously, 
So that I might the sooner reach thy feet. 
I have no words to tell why I dared come; 
I onl}^ plead my utter need of thee. 
And may the company before high God, 
Angels, archangels, and the saints of France, 
Bear witness to the oath which now I swear; 
No queen shall sit beside me on my throne 
Save Agnes, Princess of Merania. 

Agnes 

Hardly I hear the words which thou hast said, 
I only hear thy voice. I only know 
Thou art before me, thou in very truth; 
And I who have no life apart from thee 
Am standing in the presence of my lord. 

[They are clasped in one another^ s arms, 
xcliile their lips meet in a long silence^ 

Philip 

Weep, my beloved. I weep. Upon my breast 
Let fall thy blessed tears of happiness. 
And freely cleanse thy heart from suffer- 
ing. . . . 
Now call for thine attendants and thy dames, 
Bid them prepare thee as befits a queen, 
And bring thee to the chapel in this hour, 
Where I shall wait thee. In my retinue 
I hither bring the Bishop of Auxerre 



Cbe Q^artiage of a i^fng 9 

In readiness for consecrating rite. 

There will I take thee though the earth in won- 
der 

Beneath my feet should gape and fall asunder. 
[Exit Agnes] 

What ho, without! Bid the lord bishop enter, 

The chaplain of the castle, and my nobles, 

I\Iy 'squires, my attendants, and my pages, 

[Enter the Bishop of Auxerre, the Chap- 
lain, Nobles, etc. To Chaplain] 

Sir priest, give heed to my lord bishop's 
words. 

He knows, and shall instruct you in my will. 

[Exeunt all save the Bishop and the Chap- 
lain] 

Chaplain 

My lord, what is it your French king would 

do? 
I tremble when I think what this may mean. 

Bishop 

E'en that he wed tonight with the maid here; 
So be prepared to render me assistance 
In all that may concern the ritual. 

Chaplain 

But this is grievous sin he contemplates ; 
Doth he not fear the holy wrath of Rome? 



10 Ci)e ^attiage of a l^ing 

Bishop 

He fears no Pope, nor saint, nor God, nor devil. 
As you would guard your peace place not your- 
self 
In opposition to the king of France. 
He goes to win the lady's father now, 
Setting himself thereby an easy task. 
Dost think your Duke will be rejoiced, or no, 
At such an high alliance for his house.'' 

Chaplain 

Dread power of kings in this our mortal day ! 
Nothing remains for me but to obey. 
[^Exeunt ^ 



INTERLUDE 

The candles flare from the altar 
Through the incense-burdened air; 

They gleam on a priest intoning, 
On two who are kneeling there. 

One is a king in his purple, 

One is a lady fair; 
Fitful, they gleam on her jewels, 

Fitful, they gleam on her hair. 

The ring is placed on her finger. 
His hand is joined to her hand. 

The company there assembled 
Are shivering where they stand. 

They tremble as though were passing 
On the air a wandering ghost. 

As they bend in adoration 
Before the uplifted Host. 

He leads her down from the altar. 
He leads her forth from the place. 

Her eyes are rapt in a vision. 
His eyes never leave her face. 



PART II 

Rome. The Papal Court. Pope Innocent 
III is seated on his throne surrounded hy his 
cardinals. 

Innocent 

Full three years has the insolent French king 

Defied the might of Rome's authority, 

Openly living with his concubine 

In impious outrage to all Christendom ; 

The while his lawful wife appealed in vain 

For reinstatement in her queenly rights. 

My predecessor, the weak Celestine, 

Sent but entreaties and remonstrances 

That she might be restored. Let Philip now 

Find in me one who is inflexible 

To make him bend his head to Holy Church, 

And learn her dictates are inviolable. 

He wUl not stand against her awful curse 

Wherewith I threaten him, unless he give 

To my command instant obedience. 

Is not my legate yet returned from France.'* 

A Cardinal 

Your Holiness, e'en now he waits without. 
13 



14 Cbe ^atriage of a H^ing 

Innocent 

Bid him to enter. J[Aside^ Scarce can I re- 
tain 
My patience till I hear the word he bring. 

IThe cardinal Legate enters and kneels 
to Innocent] 
Lord Cardinal, I welcome you ; but pray 
Make no delay in telling what befell, 
And how this king's pride grovelled in the dust. 

Legate 

Your Holiness, the mandate is delivered. 
It was with difficulty that I gained 
With the adulterous Philip, audience. 
When to receive me he at length consented, 
He listened to me with such absent mind 
As showed the more insulting to your words. 
But understanding in the end their purport. 
Turning his gaze on me, his proud lip curled. 
And answering not at all, his eyes once more 
Resumed the look of one whose thoughts are far 
Away from present trivial happenings. 
So he dismissed me from the presence chamber. 
[Innocent, trembling with rage, rises with 
upraised arni] 

Innocent 

Now let the interdict descend on him. 
Let the whole realm of Philip lie accursed. 



Cl)e ^attiage of a i^ing i5 

Not only may the place of his abode 

Be desolated, but let my decree 

Be published through the length and breadth 

of France. 
No sacrifice of the most holy Mass ; 
No baptism save to the newly bom; 
To no one may be absolution given; 
Nothing — save unction in extremity. 
No marriage, burial ; let the doors be shut 
In every church within his wide domain, 
That this most blasphemous of kings may feel 
Upon his neck the iron heel of Rome. 
Let him be crushed beneath a people's hate, 
Denied all spiritual sustenance; 
His days deserted, but his fearful nights 
Filled with unquiet ghosts of those who lie 
In ground unhallowed. May they drive him 

forth 
To eat grass as the Babylonian king. 
Know ye all ages, and in every land. 
No power before the will of Rome can stand. 

\_Exeunt'\ 



16 Cbe Qiarriage of a i^ing 



Paris. The palace of the king. 
Agnes alone in her chamber. 

Agnes 
Time is too long that I have known his sorrow. 
Too long I know the word of sunderance 
Is mine to utter, for he will not speak. 
Night must no more descend upon my silence; 
I will take courage while I am alone; 
Ere we shall sit together in the twilight, 
And the slow veil of the enshrouding dark 
Fall and enfold us in its still embrace. 
Then should I fail as I have failed before . . . 
When after he has left me each grey morn. 
My will is strong to turn itself to speech 
And hear at last the answer from his lips. 
Yet even so, I mind me 'twas of late 
I sat among the barons of the court 
In the assembly of the council hall ; 
And I know not with what solicitude 
My look was fastened on his countenance. 
That, set in stern lines of accustomed pain 
Made my determination gather force. 
Sudden he turned his eyes to rest on mine. 
And their dark trouble softened with such grace 
As though an eagle had become a dove. 
Then could I not for rapture stay my blush, 



Ci)e Carriage of a l^ing 17 

Nor check the flow of my quick-welling tears. 
And all resolve was drowned and swept 

away. . . . 
No more of that . . . 

To reach the dreaded end? 
Each one of us a separate way to take? 
Oh, might I bear the agony alone, 
And he be spared ! But so it cannot be. . . . 
He comes to me, his step is on the stair. 
Within my soul I hold his every kiss ; 
Within my body hold his little child, 
His life, so lately and so wondrously 
Stirring in me as stirs the quickening spring. 
Holy Saint Agnes, lady of the lamb, 
Sustain me, strengthen me in my ordeal. 

[Enter Philip] 
Dearest my lord, I fain would speak with thee. 
I, seeing trouble Avritten on thy brow, 
Cannot contain the ache within my breast. 
It is my need to know thy trouble's cause. 

Philip 
Come to the window, where the lingering day 
May from thy beauty borrow radiance. 
Sit here by the embrasure in the light ; 
Let me sit near thee, lowly at thy feet. 
Lift thy long unbound tresses to my lips. 
Thus — thus — as ever. Only at thy side 
May Philip find a peace for his vext mind. 
Thy presence breathes o'er me thine alpenrose. 



18 Cije Qiattiage of a l^ing 

Pale pasque flower, and gold anemone, 
Pansies in iridescent purple bloom 
Fringing the lip of thine eternal snows ; 
Saint Bruno's lily, and blue columbine 
Dashed with the foam of icy cataracts. 
Thy gentle power calms my turbulence. . . . 
Thou knowest the strength of my long-nurtured 

wish. 
Unity for the whole fair land of France, 
And her extension. Now on every hand 
With John of England have I compromised; 
Binding my son in marriage with his niece, 
Giving him Arthur's homage for the fiefs 
That will be thus dismembered from my realm. 
Heavily on me weigh my cares of state. 

Agnes 
Nay, it is more. For ever is thy wont 
To meet such crises with a kindling glance 
And arm thyself for conflict. By the Rood 
I conjure thee, and by thy saints of France, 
Withhold not from me utterance of thy grief, 
Although my heart should break in listening. 

Philip 
Woe unto me if I should answer thee ! 
Woe unto me if I should hold my peace! 
My people pine, beloved ; the dead pass by 
Unsanctified to burial. No sound 
Of marriage bells is heard, no more the Host 



Cije ^attiage of a l^ing i9 

Is raised on the high altars ; so to each 

Is now denied the blessed Sacrament. 

And all because my kiss lies on thy lips ; 

Because we sit with intertwined arms ; 

With eyes that read fulfilment of our dreams 

In one another's gazing steadfastly. 

Yet O my love, the vision fades and breaks ; 

And racked, I turn to bury my face deep 

In thy warm hair, and with thy soft hands press 

All sight from out my eyes, sound from my ears. 

Yet even thus, I see my people come 

To the blank, desolate, and silent church. 

Through my hands' pressure on thy covering 

hands 
I hear their wail. 

Agnes 

My king, my love, my lord, 
There is no other way but I must go. . . . 
Nay, strain me not so fiercely to thy breast ; 
See, Agnes kneels to thee, their king and hers, 
And prays that thus be raised the interdict. 
For thee to suffer Agnes to depart. 

Philip 

I cannot let thee. I will go with thee. 
Leaving my barren throne. But to remain, 
Knowing thy lonely anguish far away — 
Lifting my life up like an empty cup 
The wine has spilled from.'' Rather might I die. 



20 Cf)e 6i^arriage of a Mm 

Agnes 
The kings of this world have a trust to keep, 
The King of Heaven, their Exemplar, giveth. 
And it is for thy people that I plead; 
They look to thee, their sovereign and their 

father. 
Who but thyself knows to redress their wrongs. 
Soothe their poor grievances, defend their land 
Against encroachment of the foreign foe. 
Create for them wiser and better laws, 
And give the blessing of internal peace? 
Like lost sheep of my wild Tyrolean hills. 
The}' will lie perished in the driving snow 
Without thy guiding hand to succour them. 

Philip 
Thou wringest my soul. I can no more with- 
stand, 
But must fall vanquished in the unequal fight 
I wage against the mighty power of Rome. 
There is no other way of life but this — 
The way of death in life for thee and me. 

Agnes 

Thy kingly word ? Ah ! God, the path lies 

plain. . . . 
Yet once more, O beloved, and once more 
Thy kiss — my bosom to thy bosom claspt — 
One only time again, for 'tis the last. 



EPILOGUE 

The Castle of Poissy. 

The Princess Agnes lies dying. Her ladies 
kneel about her couch. She speaks to them. 

Lois and Constance, Alice, Eulalie, 

You whose true love has been without alloy. 
No less in this sad end of time for me, 

Than when you followed me in my great joy; 

You know that I have tried to hold my life 
From slipping in its misery away ; 

You know I can no more maintain the strife. 
And must accept defeat as best I may. 

Perchance Our Lady, of the pierced heart. 
Will deign to have compassion upon me. 

Who cannot look to her ere I depart. 
But drop my eyelids in humility. 

In mercy has she gathered to her breast 
My little son, his father never saw. 

Meekly I render thanks. And for the rest, 
Her pity may transcend the human law. 

You know that never could I stay my thought 

On what the learned doctors fain would say ; 

And that their reasoning but went for naught 

When clear before me my heart's counsel lay. 
21 



22 Cfje Carriage of a l^ing 

They have condemned my sin beyond reprieve, 
For that I cannot tell them I repent. 

To silence their insistence should I weave 
A lie in answer to their argument? 

But ah ! the guilt they pass so lightly by 
Still in my last hour overshadows me ; 

It was through me rose up the people's cry, 
Whose heads were bowed beneath the Pope's 
decree. 

For to their faith the Church's sealed door 
Denied them their salvation's hope to win. 

I sinned in causing pain, but sorrow more 
For making likewise my beloved to sin. 

Forgive my failure to abide with you ; 

Gather yet closer, you I love so well ; 
Let no priest come for penitence to sue. 

Nor let them toll for me the passing bell. 

Before my dying eyes no means of grace ; 

No crucifix on dying lips of mine ; 
This ring, his pledge of love, has claimed their 
place — 
So on my last thought may his image shine. 
Amen. 



ON THE STAIRWAY AT BLOIS 
A TRAGIC DIALOGUE 



Qui veut oi'r chanson? 

C'est du grand Due de Guise, 

Et bon, bon, bon, bon, 

Di, dan, di dan don 
Cost du grand Due de Guise. 

Anon. 



TO 
ALICE W. 

Alice, this passion of the past, 

Dead more than thrice a hundred years, 
Whither, with all its joys and fears 

Does it lead, after all, at last? 

But through the centuries of wars. 
The centuries of moral strife, 
Such force maintains its primal life 

Unchanging, constant as the stars. 

Bear gently with me, as is meet. 

It may be this has little worth; 

But you were present at its birth 
And so I lay it at your feet. 



PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE 

Henri de Lorraine, Due de Guise, called Le 
Balafrc from the scar on his face won on 
the field of Dormans. 

Chicot, jester to Henry III of Valois, King of 
France. 

Charlotte de Beaune Semblan^ay, Mar- 
quise de Noirmoutier, Mistress of the Due 
de Guise. 

A Messenger. 

There are heard also the voices of the Sieur 

DE Marillac, a courtier; the Sieur de Revoi,, 

Secretary of State; and the Cardinal de 

Guise, speaking from within the castle. 

The action takes place in the chateau of 

Blois on the morning of the twenty-third of 

December, 1588. 



ON THE STAIRWAY AT BLOIS 

The interior whorl of the open stairway of 
Francis I in the cliateaur. Half way up the 
stair to the left may he seen the door leading 
into the Council Chamber of Henry III. 
Chicot the jester is crouched in an embrasure 
of one of the "windows. The early morning sky 
is lowering, and the light that falls on the ele- 
mental beauty of the carved stone is sombre 
and sad. Chicot is watching the pages as 
they play at cup and ball below in the Court- 
yard. Throughout the following he remains 
unobserved to the other persons speaking. 

Chicot 

Bravo ! Bravo ! That was well caught, I 

swear ! 
But presently will be one better caught ! 
Rare sport these games of ball, now here — now 

there — 
And M'hen the victor's guerdon is a crown ! 
Hien! But the game plays out. Come up, 

brave ball ; 
With all the many pairs of hands outstretched 

'Tis over likely thou wilt not be missed. 

27 



28 Dn tbe ^taittoap at iBlote 

Come, flaunt thy title of Le Balafre, 

And find within the means to glut thy pride. 

Yet doubt not that the scar marring thy cheek, 

Vain as thou art of it, was easier 

To heal than others thou shalt soon receive. 

For through the lengths of all the royal rooms, 

And up and down the secret inner stair 

Huddle my lord d'Epernon's trusty guard, 

Each one well armed with tried and tempered 

steel. 
Much fitter than would be the blade I bear 
To drink of blood so high and menacing. 

[He ruefully examines an old sword blade 
which he carries; but quickly brighten- 
ing, continues^ 
The Mass is sung. God's blessing now is sure 
Upon the issue of the enterprise. 
Why tarry longer, Duke? Would that my lord 
The King had trusted this same work to me — 
Aha ! It would be short. 

[He thrusts in the air with the blade as 

if stabbing an invisible enemy. As he 

does so a step is heard entering the 

stairxvay from the Court^ 

Hist! 

[He whets the blade against the window'\ 

He! J' ay Guise. 

[He crouches out of sight. As the step 

advances. Henri Due de Guise is seen 



€)n tbe ^taittuap at 15loi$ 29 

ascending, rounding the curve of the 
central pillar, on his way to keep his 
appointment with the king. His eyes 
are as the eyes of a man seeing nothing 
of the world outside, hut fixed as in con- 
templation of an inner vision. He 
pauses, his gaze upon the vision seem- 
ing to deepen, and murmurs involun- 
tarUy'\ 

Guise 

Her eyes ! — her lips ! — 

[Again footsteps are heard on the lower 
stair. They mount hurriedly, find a 
messenger enters. He hands the duke 
a handkerchief from which a paper 
drops, and as quickly goes down and 
disappears. Guise picks up the paper, 
reads it, crumples it in his hand and lets 
it fall, saying shortly^ 
The ninth. 
[His eyes regain the vision J 

Her eyes ! — her lips ! — 
Her soft hair at the pressure of my hand 
Yielding to curl its golden tendrils round 
My fingers, as her gentle spirit twines 
Itself about my inmost being's core. 

[His look strays to the sky seen through 
the window^ 



30 Dn tht ^taittoap at 15\oi$ 

How strange the morn, how alien to the night! 
The morn with sombre clouds veiling the sun, 
The night all luminous with her bright hair. 
Its gold creating consciousness of light 
Throughout the darkness that encircled us. 
The morn whose cheek is cold and stained with 

tears, 
The night all warm and dewy sweet with her. 
\_Another and softer step sounds from he- 
low. Faltering yet resolute it ascends, 
and as it comes nearer Charlotte, Mar- 
quise de Noirmoutier is seen approach- 
ing the duke where he has paiised on the 
stairway. Her arms are half extended. 
Her face has a deadly pallor, while the 
lips quiver. The conflict betzceen love, 
fear of the duke^s anger, terror for his 
safety and determination in her purpose 
is evident in her mien. He turns and 
looks at her. His face becomes rigid 
and stern. Her gaze meets his unswerv- 
ingly'] 
I have forbidden that thou come to me 
Ere I should visit thee again. And now 
What I commanded thou dost disregard. 

Charlotte 

Suffer me now to speak, for so I must, 
A power stronger even than thy will, 



i)n tht ^tairUjap at iaioi$ 31 

Which until now has swayed me flesh and soul, 
Holds me in domination. Yesternight 
A horror of great darkness came o'er me ; 
Such fear as I had never felt before 
Though knowing well that danger compassed 

thee. . . . 
It was as if Death crept into my bed, 
Death wearing thy similitude. I lay 
With all my heart's blood frozen at its source, 
Unable to cry out. . . . 

And this was ere 
The moon had set upon our trance of love. 
And while the rapture of thy long last kiss 
Still laved me in its flood when thou wert gone. 

[Her voice breaks in a sob] 
Thou knowest I have prayed thee heretofore 
To fly, or be the first to strike the blow. 
But more to fly this murder-ridden court 
Inimical to thee, where in the dark 
Of every corner of the castle walls 
May lurk assassins hungry for thy life 
By day no less than night. And thou hast shut 
My mouth with kisses till my senses swooned. 
This may no longer be. 

Though I have known 
Of the repeated warnings come to thee, 

[He starts, froxeming, but makes a gesture 
of contempt^ 
Ever my fears have all been soothed away. 



h2 Dn the ^taitttia^ at IBlois 

They cannot be since the stark terror seized 
Upon my soul and would not be gainsaid. 
And since the dawning of this winter day 
Again from unknown sources thou art warned — 

[Catchmg sight of the fallen paper'\ 
Another message lies there at thy feet ! 

Guise 

It doth amaze me that the sport of fools 
Should hold so high a place in thy esteem. 
But more than this, that thou should'st enter- 
tain 
The very shadow of a thought that I 
Who am Lieutenant General of France — 
Her king that is to be — should pay regard 
To such weak babble of ingenious lies. 
Dost thou recall the time of Barricades 
When Paris woke to her true loyalty, 
Hailing me for the conqueror who drove 
The Germans from our land? How thereupon 
The multitude would have beset the Louvre 
To crush the viper brood of Italy 
In person of its ineffectual head, 
But that my clemency withheld its hand? 
In the streets thronging with my followers 
What but my presence, and without my sword, 
Had saved the hireling Swiss from massacre? 
What followed? From the city, stealthily. 
Thou knowest that the wretched Valois fled, 



S)n tbe ^tajtbap at IBtob a^ 

Too cowardly to show his face to me 

And to a people righteous in revolt. 

The while his mother to ensure his flight 

Made pretence to consider my demands. 

Thereafter all I had required of him 

Has graciously been granted. Dost thou think 

He dare defy me having tried my strength? 

Charlotte 

Here all is otherwise. Paris is far, 
The Valois' followers many, and the town 
Notorious in hostility to thee 
And to the cause in thee personified. 
The king, unworthy of the clemency 
Shown unto him, would be incapable 
Of acting likewise. 

Guise 

I was not aware 
I spoke to thee of clemency from him. 

[TJie coldness of his looTc pierces her. De- 
spairingly she covers her face with her 
hands while the tears trickle between 
her fingers. Guise speaks with more 
kindness^ 
Touching the messages which thou art pleased 
To call by name of warnings, I had thought 
They had been hid from thee. 



34 Dn tf)e ^taittoap at IBIoig 

Charlotte 

Thou canst not hide 
Thy peril, howsoever shadowed forth, 
From knowledge of the woman loving thee 
And kneeling in entreaty at thy feet. 

[^She kneels before him, clasping her hands. 
He raises her, catching her to his breast. 
She throws her arms about his neck with 
a half uttered cry. He holds her closer, 
kissing her lips. A long pause^ 
O Henri, my love! Oh, captive me, 
Weak in the fortress of thine arms ! But no. 
This weakness only strengthens the resolve 
Of love so strong that it can brave thine ire 
And in the throne room of the citadel. 
Let come what may, defy its lord's command. 

Guise 

Sweet, my most sweet, dearer than life to me. 
Dearer to me for all thy fears for me. 
These fears are but the phantasm of the night 
The full day shatters. Nothing bodes me ill. 
The Holy League is strong, the paltry king 
Is weaker than the worm beneath my heel. 
The Bearnais? what should I dread from him. 
An heretic whom God condemns unheard.'' 
And when the nation in security 
Shall find in me its high demands fulfilled, 
No vision of the half awakened brain 



£Dn tf)e ^taittoap at 15loi9i 35 

Shall sooner be forgot than all thy fears. 
Thou shalt be as the queen — the only one — 
And never queen of France more loved than 

thou; 
Not Agnes de Meranie, not Queen Berthe 
Nor she whom once they called La belle des 

Belles. 
Dost thou remember how we grieved for her, 
By her pale image with its sculptured lambs ? 
Too early death had severed her from love. 
And we have sorrowed for those two sad queens 
Living in cruel exile from their lords, 
For life apart is sadder far than death. 
Yet we exulted in our sorrowing 
To know their passions' fulness, till at length 
We lost the sense of theirs within our own. 

Charlotte 

Thy words fall on my ears with hollow sound 
Of clods upon the coffin in a grave, 
And I am conscious of no other thing 
Than of thy living presence here and now. 
This much I know, the present instant's sure, 
It may be snatched from all-devouring doom. 
Now — go back now — and cross the court and 

drop 
Over the ramparts to the river's strand ; 
There stalwart hands will bear thee swiftly on 
Within the boat that leads thee to thy friends. 



36 jDn tJje ^tairtoap at 13Iois 

One moment more and it may be too late, 
Ere the curved horror of this fateful stair 
Engulf thee as the maelstrom of the sea, 
Wherein 'twere safer thou shouldst hurl thyself 
Than pass beyond the threshold of that door. 

Guise 

\^With returning sternness, disengaging 
her arms-l 
Charlotte, affairs concerning my estate 
Are brought to such a pass, that if mine eyes 
Beheld Death enter at the window there 
I would not by the open door escape. 

[Charlotte's arms fall to her sides. She 
stands with unseeing eyes. Guise with 
a long gaze at her full of the intensity 
of his passion, suddenly turns, and with- 
out looking hack goes up the stair and 
in at the door of the Council Chamber 
which shuts behind him with a clang. 
At the sound Charlotte starts and 
rushes up the steps to the door, flinging 
her arms upward against the iron-bound 
wood and pressing her face upon it. 
She utters a low moan. Chicot has 
crept from his hiding place, following 
and peering at her with curiosity. Ar- 
rested by her moan he pauses. 
From within Charlotte can hear her lover 



SDn tJje ^tairtoap at IBIois 37 

as he speaks in jesting tones with the 
courtiers, and presently she is able to 
distinguish the words that are said^ 

The voice of the Sieur de Marillac. 
My lord, your face is pale. 

The imice of Guise 

It is with cause, 
I yet am cold from having been exposed 
So early to the bleakness of the morn. 
The fire dies down. Ho, lackey, bring more 

wood, 
And fetch my silver shell with sweets therein 
From some of my retainers whom you find. . . . 
Though, being long to wait for his return. 
Monsieur de Morfontaine, be good enough 
To have word sent to the king's gentleman, 
Requesting that he shortly hither bring 
Some damsons or some trifle of the king's. 
. . . Ah, that is well. . . . My lords here in 

my box 
Are plums conserved with meticulous skill, 
I find they rightly suit my appetite. 
Honour me in enjoying them with me. 

[^An inner door is heard to open, and there 
is borne to Charlotte's ears the zroice 
of the Sieur de Revol, Secretary of 
State, who has entered the Council 



38 SDn tbe ^taittoap at lBloi0 

Chamber from the private apartments 
of the king^ 

The voice of the Sieur de Revol 

His Majesty is pleased to wait the Duke 

In the Old Cabinet. 

The voice of Guise 

Indeed? 'Tis well. 

My spirit ever in obedience 

Bows to my liege lord's bidding. Sirs, adieu. 

I leave these plums for whoso wishes them. 

\_There is a noise as of the silver box hav- 
ing been tossed upon the table. Im- 
mediately afterward the footsteps and 
the closing of a door tell that Guise 
has entered the king^s private chambers. 
The silence is tense and unbroken. 
Charlotte has never relaxed her atti- 
tude, her body pressed closely against 
the door^ 

\^A sound comes from the far inner rooms, 
— a muffled voice — a loud and dread- 
ful cry; then tumult and confused mur- 
muring. Charlotte regardless of all 
else is tearing at the fastening of the 
door. It has been barred from within. 
She beats against it with her head and 
Jiands'l 



£Dn tht ^taittuap at 15Ioi0 39 



The voice of the Cardinal de Guise 

[Loud and instinct with horror and 
alarm. ] 
They are murdering my brother ! 

Charlotte 

O my God ! 

[She continues to beat upon the door. 
Her forehead and hands are bleeding and 
the woodzvork is stained with her blood. 
The cries and clamour within have in- 
creased, and they draw nearer bearing 
with their sound another, as of stagger- 
ing and trampling feet. Then there is 
a heavy fall. 

On the instant all is still. The castle 
seems to hold its breath. Charlotte 
zvith a last cry falls backward dozen the 
steps. Chicot, who has watched her 
•with the fascination of terror, is seized 
zcith a violent trembling, and, gibbering, 
stares at her as she lies with bloodstained 
face and palms upturned to the beau^ 
tiful insensate traceries of stone^ 



L'ENVOI 

Alice, I give you this my verse. 
If you, as I, have humbly sought, 
You find a philosophic thought 

Mid passion's rapture and its curse. 

Yet — if we ask of those who slake 

Their thirsting at these springs of fire, 
They say, One hour's fulfilled desire 

Is worth the heart's eternal break. 

And so I leave it as it stands ; 
Leaving as well the high emprise 
To tell of ways more nobly wise 

To other minds and other hands. 



NOTE 

In the foregoing the historical data of Michelet 
have mainly been followed with the exception of 
the actual meeting of Guise and Mme. de Noir- 
moutier on the stairway, which is of course an 
invention. Mezeray is responsible for the pres- 
ence there of Chicot, and for his pun, as Guise 
passed that way to the Council Chamber. 

We have attempted to throw around the passion 
of these lovers more glamour than would seem 
warrantable, when we remember that they were 
products of the Court of Catherine de Medicis, 
not to speak of their many other and former love 
intrigues ; yet in approaching the figures of the 
past we venture to feel that liberty may be taken; 
for we walk with Gautier 

. . . among the ruins of a buried world, 

In the mystery of shadows 

Amid the limbo of forgotten things. 



OTHER POEMS 



OF MY VERSE CHILDREN 

My little bed within my little room, 
Quiet and white and shrouded in soft gloom, 
Your narrow length has held me in delight 
Of sweet austere conception in the night. 

You have upheld me in the pangs of birth, 
In travail not as travail of the earth. 
On you I bore the children of my brain 
With joyous transport unalloyed by pain. 

Children of fantasy, whose merit lies 
Mayhap but solely in their parent's eyes, 
I would not give such travail brought to me 
For earthly parenthood's reality. 



45 



46 jTrom tfte Limbo 



EASTER EVEN 

A ROBIN sang 
As the late twilight melted into night: 

No leaves, no flowers yet 
In the young April where his feet are set. 
But sure foreknowledge fills him with delight. 
The memory of a thorn-crowned head, 
Whose blood but yesterday his breast ensan- 
guined. 

Leaves nor regret nor sorrow ; 
His heart is filled with joy of the tomorrow. 

Would God, O Bird, 
That all men might be stirred 
With understanding of the song I heard ! 



HDf jForgotten Cbings; 47 



THE QUEST 

TO C. T. D. 

When shall we look for the birds that are 

winging, 
Where shall we seek for that joyous throng? 
When the leaves are fresh and the flowers are 

springing, 
Where the heart of the woods is wild with song. 

All May long by the wings that hover, 
The notes that quiver, the breast that gleams, 
We are guided in quest of the woodland lover 
In haunted country by haunted streams. 

Find him or lose him on hill or in hollow. 
In arching branches or brambled trails, 
The wild life calls and we still must follow 
Though hot noon passes and sunlight pales. 



48 iftom tbe Limbo 



SOMEWHERE IN FLANDERS 

On the sodden ground 
Stirs a living form, 
Among the dead forms 
There on the ground. 

Victory 

— and defeat 
Have rolled by. 

Beyond, 
His friends have taken 

the enemy's trench. 
In his heart 
Lust of battle, 
Burning thirst to avenge 

his country's wrongs 
Have gone. 
Only is left the longing 
Insatiable 
For his soul's peace. 

Out of the mist 
A figure in khaki 
Moves towards him. 



S>f Jforgotten Cijings 49 



Now he is here. . . . 
Ah ! that face so kind, 
So full of holiness — 
Could but proclaim 
A priest of Christ. 

The form on the ground 
Stirs again ; 
With his failing voice 
He utters a cry — 
" Father, 
Show me the Cross." 

The man in khaki 

Looks sadly down. 

Alas! 

He has no cross — 

Nothing to satisfy 

that last appeal. 
To close in peace 
Those dying imploring eyes. 

Pityingly 

He stoops to the ground 
And binds together 
Two fragments of wood, 
Torn and blackened 
By the shrapnel. 



50 iFtom tf)e Limbo 

Lo, the symbol! 

Compassionately 
The man in khaki 
Places it before 
The dying eyes — 
Presses it upon 
The dying lips 

that smile; 
The solemn and alien symbol - 
While to the ears of his mind 
Roll the words of the Shema', 
" Hear, O Israel : 
The Lord our God 
Is one Lord "... 

Tenderly 

His hands close the eyes 

of the dead, 
And on the breast 
Lovingly 

He lays the symbol — 
The solemn and alien symbol — 
For the man in khaki 
Is a Jew. 



W iForgotten Cftingg 5i 



OFF THE COAST 

The soft hot winds rejoice, 
The sun streams over me, 

And in my ears is the voice 
Of my old friend the sea. 

The wild birds cry above, 
The waters lap below, 

And in my heart is the love 
That only pain may know. 



52 Jfrom tht JLimlio 



RETURN OUT OF ESTRANGEMENT 

PENLLYN 

Back to the place of my wild fresh childhood, 
Wild fresh meadows, and woods green and 

deep — 
O my country, take me to j^our keeping, 
Take me and fold me and let me sleep. 

Give me the wind in the leaves of the corn fields, 

Shedding their fragrance through the day and 
night, 

Where the earth dips to the lip of the wood- 
land, 

Steeped in the radiance of the August light. 

Steeped in the light that draws the tasselled 

tresses upward. 
Signal of the ripening of the golden breasts. 
Under the stars, though no wind seems stirring 
Still is heard the restfulness of their unrest. 

O'er the rounded summits of the full-leaved trees 

of summer 
Looms the distant thunder head against the 

sky, 



Df Jforgotten Cf)ing$ 53 

Sky intensely blue above tlie quivering heat haze 
Rising from the mown fields of wheat and oats 
and rye. 

Ripening apples dropping on the sward of the 

orchard 
Close cut, and green as when the year was 

young ; 
Yellowing pears and reddening apples dropping 
From the overburdened boughs where late they 

hung. 

O my country, your long meadow marshland, 
Where the cows graze, where the grasshoppers 

play, 
Here the mists of evening draw from out your 

keeping 
Strange sweet scents unknown to the day. 

Fold me awhile from the sense of human sorrow, 
War of world's words, and dread anxiety ; 
Even earth's beauty seems elsewhere half alien, 
Here alone I find reality. 



54 JFrom tl)e LimlJO 



ON AN ANCIENT STONE CIRCLE 

IN THE MULL HILLS. I. O. M. 

Stones, what your mystic purport none can 

say. 
Here through the centuries man makes or mars 
You stand. The empty moor is yours by 

day — 
By night the silent pageant of the stars. 



£Df iFotgotten Cl)ing$ 55 



FORGETFULNESS 

God gave this gift to man. Of all that He 

Has ever given this is of the best, 

For by it we are freed from the unrest 

And ceaseless anguish born of memory. 

The lotos flower around us blooms though we 

Of roses of our youth be dispossessed. 

It is forgetfulness that calms the breast 

And silences the past's wild reveille. 

Old voices sound no longer in our ears, 

And of the clasp of hands we used to know 

We dream no more with passionate regret. 

Over it all is drawn the veil of years ; 

And though we loved and suffered long ago, 

Peace is about us now — for we forget. 



56 JTrom t!)e JLimlJO 



SUFFICIENCY 

My eyes looked into his eyes, 
And there was written the love of old 
Buried by many a winter's snow 

And lying beneath the mold. 
Like a drift of blossoms across my face 
Came the lost spring back from its silent 
place. . . . 



SDf Jforgotten Cl)ing:si 57 



SCAMANDER 

(The National Oeographic Magazine tells how the 
Scamander is decreasing in volume, and may soon be- 
come altogether dry.) 

The river has wearied, wearied, 
In his ceaseless fall and flow 
Since the Argive host embattled 
On his plain laid Ilion low. 
As the higher gods forsaking 
The fane of their own making, 
So the god of the stream is taking 
His leave though loth to go. 

The sand that clogs his current 

And breaks his strengthless wave 
He dreams are the warrior corpses 
His glory was to lave ; 
And the dry reeds rattle, 
The clash of spears in battle, 
When the careless feet of cattle 
Stamp on their ancient grave. 



58 JFrom tfje JLimlJO 

From his cold springs of Ida 

He leaps to meet the foe, 
Only to wander, aimless. 
On the blank plain below. 

Till his final waves have wended 
To the sea and with her blended, 
And his long dream ended 
In her he rests from woe. 



f)f JForgotten Cl)ing0 59 



LEAVES 

The year is dying again. 
The leaves lie over the garden path 

Sodden and dank with the rain. 
The wind that slew them in wrath 

Now their pallid ruin despises. . 

And the wind of memory rises 
With an impulse mad and vain, 
Only to drive against my heart 

The sodden leaves of pain. . . . 



60 jFrom tbt JLimlio 



AUTUMN ROSES 

" Sweetest of roses is an Autumn rose." 

Francois Villon. 

Autumn, you bring me today 
Not the pain of the past, 
Only the present glory ; 
Wind in the yellowing leaves, 
Meadows sunlight-steeped, 
Low-hung mists on the stream ; 
And from far on the air, 
Thrillingly, piercingly sweet, 
The unseen meadow-lark's song; 
And sweeter than roses of June, 
These blooming late in the year 
Loved and immortalized by 
The long dead poet of France. 

Still, O Roses, you lift 
Your open hearts to the sun ; 
Not the before nor beyond 
Can your serenity touch 
In the perfection of now. 
Only to lift up your leaves 
Into the warmth and the light, 
Only to be what you are — 
Roses — this is enough ! 



SDf JFotgotten C|)ing0 6i 



TO MADONNA BEATRICE D'ESTE 

Princess, an enviable lot is thine ! 

Fate summons death to take thee from mis- 
chance, 

Lest gathering gloom make thy bright spirit 
pine, 

Or sorrow cause thy feet to flag i' the dance. 



62 Jfcom tbe JLimlJO 



ABSENCE 

From afar your thoughts were turning 
Unto me, I was aware; 
Till it seemed by your deep yearning 
You had almost drawn me there. 

And it seemed I hastened to you, 

And I stood beside your bed, 

Called you by your name and clasped you, 

To my bosom held your head. 



£Df jFotgotten Cbing0 63 



RAIN SONG FOR A CHILD 

Little raindrops, falling raindrops, 
Dripping fast and dripping slow. 

From where come ye. 

Whither go ye, 
With your voices soft and low? 

From the sky we seek the flowers 
That lie buried out of sight. 

And we find them, 

And we wake them, 
And we lead them to the light. 



64 iFrom t[)e Limbo 



MME. ANNA PAVLOWA 

She is the mist that hovers above the cataract, 
The light that glimmers dimly on the lone marsh 

tract ; 
She is the spirit of the earth, the lily upward 

growing. 
The sea foam, and the wild wind and the thistle 

down 'tis blowing. 



£>f JForgotten C!){ng0 65 



M 



I KNOW how meek her face must be 
With silent lips and close shut eyes ; 
I know — though I may only see 
Where the white heap of lilies lies. 

The time she lingered here with us 
The grosser human elements 
Could not her gentle spirit touch, 
Clothed in its high habiliments. 

Pain, Death and Love were hers ; and she 

Now understands the nothingness 

Of two — of one the victory ; 

And so the knowledge stays with me 

Of how meek her sweet face must be. 



66 ifrom tbt Limtio 



THE NAME OF PETRARCH'S LADY 

What melodies his spirit must have heard, 
What cadences within its sound have caught ; 
The scent of all the flowers of the world 
Must have o'erwhelmed him merely at its 
thought. 



M JForgotten Ci)ing0 67 



TO SIR J. FORBES-ROBERTSON 

HIS FAREWELL IN HAMLET 

When you have hence departed o'er the sea, 
Take with you knowledge of the memory — 
Nor time nor waste of waters can efface — 
You leave behind you as in legacy. 

Our eyes beheld the eternal love and hate 
Once more; the soul 'twixt hell and heaven's 

gate. 
You wrought for us the miracle anew, 
And all our thanks are still inadequate. 

You go. We count our loss, but by our gain : 
Hamlet has lived for us in you. Our pain 
To bear the knowing that forevermore 
We shall not look upon his like again. 



68 JFrom tfje Limlio 



A SONG OF AUTUMN 

(From the French of Paul Verlaine.) 

The long drawn sobs, 
Like violin throbs, 

Of Autumn's pain, 
Wound my breast 
With weariest 

Refrain. 

Pale, when around 
Me falls the sound — 

A knell deep — 
Rises in me 
Old Memory, 

And I weep. 

And without goal 
Is borne my soul 

On blasts unkind. 
Hither and yon, 
A dead leaf blown 

By the wind. 



flDf JFotgotten C!)in00 69 



THE GRAVE AND THE ROSE 

(From the French of Victor Hugo.) 

To the rose said the sombre grave, 

" With those dews that the mom to thee gave 

What doest thou, lovely flower? " 
To the grave said the flower then, 
" What doest thou with those men 

Who fall in thy chasm, dread power? " 

Said the rose, " Dark grave, I have made 
With the dews of the morn, in the shade, 

A perfume ambrosial and sweet." 
Said the grave, " O plaintive flower, 
I make with each soul in my power 

An angel for Heaven meet." 



70 JLimtio of Jforgotten Cljingg 



L'ENVOI 

TO H. B. T. 

My father, if perchance you may have pined 
Because of all you could not give to me, 
Would you might know that you have left 
behind 

A priceless legacy. 

You showed me an ideal high and pure, 
You stirred my young sense of infinity, 
And gave to me to hold forever sure 
The love of poetry. 

With noble language of man's noblest thought 
You set my springs of childish fancy free. 
Still was my youth with its inspiring fraught, 
And my maturity. 

My gratitude for always lies so deep 
Its utterance must needs come falteringly. 
Your gift to me I have and hold and keep, 
The love of poetry. 



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